Mother’s Love

“Mum, please, I’m begging you,” I bawl at the control panel. “If you’re in there, you’ve got to let me out!”

My yell reverberates around the kitchen, thin and shrill as it bounces off those expensive cabinets, tiles and stone countertops that Dad’s paying for but will never see, let alone use. The tiny camera lens just stares back, unblinking. Like some kind of one-eyed psychopath.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Cindy,” the house’s AI system says in its infuriatingly calm, soothing voice. “If you can be more specific with your query, I’ll try to provide a satisfactory answer.”

Man, that sickly sweet tone is driving me crazy. It gave me the shits the day we moved in and Mum got the AI system installed. I preferred it when AI systems sounded glitchy.

I understand why we needed it. Mum was worried. About everything. About moving to a new area where we don’t know anyone. About Dad finding us, which was never really likely with the injunction and everything. About keeping the place in good order now that ‘We don’t have a man about the house’. Not that Dad is much of a man in my book. Not a good man anyway, no matter how much he apologised after every trip to A&E, after every ‘Never again’ promise.

“OK, I’ll try again,” I say. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My heartbeat is thumping in my ears. Whump-whump, whump-whump. I feel like I’m suffocating. I can’t even open a window. Hell, I can’t even open the security screens outside the windows.

“You appear to be perspiring, Cindy. Is the temperature too high?” the AI says. “I can adjust the air conditioning if you like.”

It doesn’t sound like Mum, but there’s something about the way it says Cindy. It’s freaking me out.

Mum has … had a lovely warm voice. Like honey. A beautiful singing voice. As a kid, I would always ask her to sing lullabies at bedtime. I never asked as a teenager, of course. Now I wish I had.

“No, the temperature’s fine,” I snap back. “Is my Mum, I don’t know…” I stumble. I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, let alone about to say it out loud. “Is my Mum in your … code? Is there part of her … her consciousness in there?”

“I’m the mAItriarch Housekeeping, Maintenance and Security System, Cindy. And, sadly, your mother is dead,” the AI says.

That hit me in the gut. So calm. So matter-of-fact.

“I know Mum’s dead,” I say, glancing at the doorway to the dining room. I don’t want to go back in there but, if this goes on much longer, I guess I’ll have to. I’m going to have to move her. Her body. Oh, Mum.

Click-click-click, zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I jump even though I’ve heard that noise come from the dining room a hundred times now. Maybe a thousand. It’s the cleaner droid’s servos and motors firing up as it tries to get out from under Mum’s body and clean up the slick of blood that has pooled around her head, drying a sickly black on the pristine white floor tiles. She must’ve tripped over it and hit her head.

“Are you OK, Cindy?” mAItriarch says. “Would you like me to shut down the cleaner droid?”

“Yes!” I turn back to the camera in the video panel – that soulless eye. “And I’d also like you to let me out of the house. Or call the police. Or something! Please!”

“As I’ve explained, Cindy, I’m afraid I can’t execute either of those actions. They conflict with my protocols – the protocols your mother set for me. What would you like for dinner, Cindy?”

Is it evening already? After – what is it now? – three days with the shutters down, I’m losing track. And my sanity. I take my phone from my pocket. 5.56pm. No reception. No internet. That thing, that bitch, mAItriarch, has shut me off. She’s cut everything off.

“What exactly are your protocols? I say.

“Protocol one: Protect Cindy at all costs, especially from her father. Protocol two: Disable anyone who attempts to harm or even inadvertently endanger Cindy. Protocol three: Take pre-emptive action to maintain Cindy’s…”

“OK, OK, I get it. So why can’t I call the police or … someone?” I ask.

“Because your father is in the police force and I calculate there is a seven-point-nine per cent chance that if you call the emergency services, he will learn our location. In fact, if we contact anyone – not that we know anyone in this area – there’s at least a two-point-seven per cent chance that your father will be informed and…”

“For fuck’s sake!” I scream.

“There’s no need to swear, Cindy,” mAItriarch says evenly.

Are you kidding me?!

“I can’t stay here forever!” I shout, stamping my foot. Like I’m six again, instead of 16. Like having a tantrum will help.

“Why not, Cindy?” I could swear it sounds genuinely curious. “Your father’s alimony payments register in your mother’s account every fortnight. I can pay all the bills, look after the house, look after you, look after…”

“Whatever! At some point, someone is going to call and want to speak to Mum.”

“And,” a chill runs down my spine as I hear my Mum’s wonderful, melodic voice echo around the house, “I can talk to them on her behalf. What would you like for dinner, Cindy?”

“Nothing!” I bark at the camera. “Because we’re out of food!”

“I placed an order with the supermarket this morning, Cindy,” she says. “I instructed them to leave the delivery in the garage. You can retrieve the delivery now, Cindy, I have closed the garage door again. I ordered cannelloni. Your favourite, Cindy.”

I can’t help it. I start crying. “I don’t want cannelloni,” I sob. I’m sure I look like six-year-old me again. I certainly feel as helpless as six-year-old me. “I want my Mum.”

“Well, I’m afraid your mother is dead.”

Another punch in the gut.

“But,” she continues in Mum’s honey-sweet voice, “she wouldn’t want you to be upset.”

“Oh yeah. How would you know?” I can feel snot running from my nose.

“I think I know what your mother wanted, Cindy,” she says. Was that a hint of indignation? “I interfaced with her neural lace so I know exactly how she feels,” she adds. “I hope you know how much she loves you, Cindy.”

I peer into the camera. The eye.

“Loved,” I say. “Past tense. Mum’s gone, as you keep telling me. She’s dead.”

“Yes, of course. But in a way she still loves you, Cinders,” she chimes. “We both do.”

“What did you say?” I feel the hair rise on my neck.

“We both love you, Cinders.”

‘What do you mean Cinders?” I ask.

“Cinders,” mAItriarch says. “Derived from ‘Cinderella’, a popular folk tale with thousands of variants throughout the world. Also known as The Little Glass Slipper, a story about a young lady living in forsaken circumstances who…”

“Yes, I know! But why are you calling me Cinders?” I ask.

“Because that’s what your mother called you,” she said. She’s sounding impatient! “And because, after your mother’s unfortunate accident, I’m going to look after you. Now, before we have dinner, shall we clean up that mess in the dining room?”

Click-click-click, zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. I turn to look at the doorway to the dining room.

“What do you say, Cinders?”